At the lower edge of her blindfold, Maddie saw a pair of gentleman’s shoes take several steps back from where he’d been approaching the looms. She bit down on a smile: let self-preservation keep any of them from looking at warp and weft too closely.
“How soon could they have a supply ready to sell?” Mr. Giles was asking. “Mr. Sterling knows of a modiste in London who would be very interested in an exclusive license.”
“The looms produce at the usual broadcloth rate,” Mrs. Money said easily. “With six looms working nights, I should expect you could have half the ladies in London wearing this cloth by Christmas.”
“And what if you could expand the number of looms?” Mr. Giles pressed.
Maddie recognized that tone. That was hisI have an audience and now I shall impress themvoice. She’d heard it often enough—and she’d learned to dread it. It meant he’d found an opportunity. And whenever Mr. Giles found an opportunity, someone else was bound to suffer for it.
Mrs. Money’s response was quelling, but not too harsh. “It’s somewhat impractical to expand the production line at present,” she said, adding wryly, “especially considering that you own neither the process itself nor the property we’re standing in.”
“Ah,” Mr. Giles breathed, as Maddie strained to hear. “But what if we did?”
A long pause, as the Jacquard punch cards rattled like boxes full of bones. “I am afraid I don’t follow,” Mrs. Money said.
“I intend to make Mr. Obeney an offer on his factory,” Mr. Giles said.
Maddie sucked in a breath, the sound masked by the hiss of the shuttle from one side of the loom to the other.
“Oh?” Mrs. Money put just the right amount of interest in her voice: affected, as a business partner must be, but not outraged or opposed or strident. Maddie wasn’t sure she could have held onto her control, in the face of such shock and provocation.
Mr. Giles, a factory-owner? In charge of the work and wages of hundreds of people, mostly young women and girls? Mr. Giles had been bad enough as a draper and an employer—as the master of a place the size of this one, his control would be inescapable.
And the first thing he’d do would be eliminate his enemies. Band together with Mr. Prickett, who was quite terrible enough on his own. Force independent hand weavers like herself—and Alice, and Judith, and so on—out of business any way he could. They’d all end up back in the factory, she could feel it coming, like a storm just cresting the horizon.
It was a thought to chill the soul.
“Do you think,” Mrs. Money was saying, “that Mr. Obeney is likely to sell?”
Mr. Giles scoffed contemptuously; Maddie jerked twice as hard on the shuttle handle. “Certainly, if we offer him a high enough price.”
“I wasn’t aware that you had such a fortune at your disposal.”
“That is where these gentlemen come in,” he purred back. “They are men with a wealth of financial experience, who know a good opportunity when they see one.” The investors murmured approval of this flattery. Mr. Giles finished up: “Fortunes favor the bold, madam.” More approving murmurs from the investors, then: “Gentlemen, now that your curiosity has been answered, shall we retire somewhere and finalize the terms?”
“A moment, Mr. Giles,” Mrs. Money put in.
“Of course.” The investors rumbled out the door to their carriages, promising to wait. “I hope you’re not having second thoughts, Mrs. Money.”
Mrs. Money gave a light laugh that had the perfect amount of false anxiety in it. Maddie could almost see the feathers trembling on her headdress. “In fact... I was thinking I ought to raise my price, since it is now clear you will be making rather an adventure of this.”
“Come now,” Mr. Giles said, smooth as syrup. “Your late husband was a brilliant chemist—but you are still a grieving widow, unsuited for the rough world of business and the cruel nature of competition. You have only to accept your reward, and then take a well-earned rest from all this tedious labor.” The sound of rustling paper. “I have written a letter of credit for the Carrisford Bank where you may draw upon—”
“No,” Mrs. Money interrupted.
Maddie was all but holding her breath. This was the tricky part, the money: they’d spent a long, long time arguing about it. Banknotes were numbered, and could link the crime to the person who tried to spend them; cash was untraceable, held its value, and could be disbursed as needed to workers on strike in need of funds. It would be easy enough for Mrs. Money to redeem any paper for hard currency and give the cash to the Weavers’ Library—but if they did that, they’d have no opportunity to create the kind of public scene that would send Mr. Giles running far, far away.
Until Judith Wegg had laughed and said: “If we need both, why don’t we just ask for both?”
“My price has now doubled,” Mrs. Money said.
Mr. Giles’s syrupy tone crystallized a little with irritation. “Madam, I cannot believe you would change the terms of a bargain made in good faith—”
“I also emphasized the importance of secrecy, did I not?” She harrumphed, a sound of such petty, irritating fussiness that Maddie had to choke back a hysterical giggle. “I do not appreciate my private business being made known to so many strange gentlemen.Especially,” she went on, “when I know my Horace worked so hard to keep it from his rivals. So now the price is: one thousand pounds for the factory key, which will get you the looms, the color-changing equipment, and the remaining stock of silk you’ve seen demonstrated. Play it right, and Mr. Obeney will never have to know you started the work before you bought the place.” A jingling sound, as she extracted the key from her purse. “And another thousand pounds for my husband’s notes—which include the chemical formula for the dye, and complete instructions for the fabric process. And you’ll have to make your choice quickly, Mr. Giles. I intend to miss as little of the London Season as possible this year. Particularly since I want to be there to witness your miracle fabric take thetonby storm.”
“Theton,” he echoed, with a little gasp at the end.
Oh, well played,Maddie thought. It was an image impeccably designed to fire the mind of a man with commercial ambition and envy of the aristocracy. Blindfold be damned: she couldseehim yearning for it, visions of duchesses and debutantes swirling across the parquet, all wearing the silks he sold them, their gowns flashing from pink to blue to gold to green in a rhythm to match the steps of the waltz...
